


To Light a Fire

by Jinxed_Ink



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2828456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxed_Ink/pseuds/Jinxed_Ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The next piece R does is of a man’s hands holding a bouquet of sunflowers and lilies intertwined with peacock feathers. shockingly blue and white and gold. The piece’s title, written with a flourish in yellow chalk is “l’art pour l’art.” The dark-haired customer doesn’t come back, and Enjolras tells himself he’s not disappointed.</em>
</p><p>In which Enjolras runs a bookshop, Grantaire befriends him because someone needs to set him straight about the purpose of literature, and a mysterious street artist takes Paris by storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Light a Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [On_the_Side_of_the_Angels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_the_Side_of_the_Angels/gifts).



“There’s a new one”, Jehan says, holding up his phone to show Enjolras a photo of a chalk drawing done on a sidewalk, representing a dark-haired woman gripping a pomegranate, in her red-stained fingers, her scarlet mouth curved into a smirk. Besides the piece, there’s the title, “Persephone”, and the capital R of the artist’s signature.

Enjolras rubs his eyes with the back of his hands and resists the urge to slump over the counter. “Great”, he says absently. “Do you want to go see it before it’s washed out?”

Jehan bites his lip. “It’s in Rue Oudinot, near the military school.”

Enjolras sighs. It’ll take Jehan at least an hour to get all the way there and come back to Rue Cujas, leaving Enjolras dealing with the customers alone. On the other hand, if forbidden to go, Jehan will be sad, and only a monster would be abide to Jehan being sad. “Fine”, Enholras relents, “but you’ll have to make up for all the time you miss when you come back, and bring coffee.”

Jehan beams. “Cross my heart and hope to die, and I’ll be back so quickly you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Time tickles by slowly while Enjolras is on his own. It’s late August, and the city is in the middle of an heatwave, and many people haven’t even returned to Paris from their holidays yet. The only customers they get are high school students who were too lazy to get the books on their assigned reading lists before now. He’s just finished serving a dark-eyed girl who came looking for “that book where the guy reacts really intensely to eating sweets”, when the shop bell chimes and a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man saunters into the room. He nods at Enjolras with the quirk of a small smile on his lips, and goes straight for the fantasy section in the back of the bookshop.

A few minutes later, the man clears his throat. “Could you please get a copy of “Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett for me, please? It’s on the high shelf.”

Enjolras resists the urge to groan and plasters on a smile. “Sure.” He crosses the shop in three quick strides, and leans up on his tiptoes to get to the book on the tallest shelf.

“Shouldn’t you get a ladder for that?” asks the man from behind him.

“I’ve got it.” Enjolras’s fingers close around the spine of the book and he pulls it out, swaying on his feet as he does. The customer grabs him to keep him steady. His hands feel very warm against Enjolras’s elbows. He turns, finding himself far closer to the stranger that he would’ve expected, close enough that he can see the faint traces of colours across his face and bright dust in his hair. _Chalk._

Enjolras clears his throat and takes a few hasty steps back. He holds up the novel. “Here. I hope you like it.”

“Thanks,” the man says with a smile. He’s got a good smile, Enjolras thinks distantly, the kind that lights up his whole face. “I have already read it, though. I managed to get my copy signed by both the authors, though, so now I’ll keep it in a wooden box and just take it out sometimes, to stroke it and whisper _my precious_ like the totally non-creepy person I am.”

“I haven’t read it”, Enjolras admits, making his way to the counter. “But then again, I’m not much for genre fiction. It’s ten euros, by the way.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Please tell me you aren’t one of those people who look down on speculative fiction because it’s _not serious_ or some bullshit like that.”

Enjolras scowls. “I just don’t see the point of genre fiction, since it fails at representing society, which is the goal of literature.”

The customer frowns. “There’s an entire genre of speculative fiction that deals with how fucked up society is, Apollo. It’s called dystopia. But besides that, you’re so terribly misguided about the goals of literature that it’s almost kind of endearing. Even admitting that art has to have a point in the first place, and I’m too much of an aesthete to think that, its goal is to illustrate human emotions, society comes just as an afterthought. Speculative fiction, being so far removed from society is exactly what makes it so suited to paint an accurate image of humanity. It sets everything against such an absurd backdrop that the humane shines through all the more brightly for it.” He leans on the counter, peering at Enjolras. “You should read _The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas_ ”, the man adds, “It’s a short story. By Ursula K. Le Guin. You’ll like it.” He winks at Enjolras, places a ten euros bill on the counter and is gone, leaving only the faint chimes of the bell behind him.

 

The next piece R does is of a man’s hands holding a bouquet of sunflowers and lilies intertwined with peacock feathers. shockingly blue and white and gold. The piece’s title, written with a flourish in yellow chalk is “l’art pour l’art.” The dark-haired customer doesn’t come back, and Enjolras tells himself he’s not disappointed.

 

Eventually, the man comes back, opening the door to “1832” on one early October morning and strolling inside with slouched shoulders, trailing red leaves and sharp autumn winds. There are twigs caught in his black curls and his eyes are huge and dark and shining. He smiles when he sees Enjolras. “There you are, Apollo. I came by a couple of times, but kept missing you.”  
“Did you?”

The man walks up to the counter. “Yup. I kept meeting your co-worker, the one with the glasses.”

 _Combeferre, then_. “Didn’t he tell you when you could find me?

“I asked, but he wouldn’t tell. And he kind of had a point, since I don’t even know your name. I might have been a stalker.”

“Oh”, that does make sense, Enjolras supposes. “I’m Enjolras, if it helps you find me next time.”

Grantaire smiled. “Nice to meet you, Enjolras. That’s not your first name, is it? No parent is that cruel.”

“No, but I’m never going to tell you my real name.

“How come?”

“Because my mother thought that with a surname like Enjolras, what I really needed was a completely ridiculous name.”

The man snorts. “Your first name can’t be harder to pronounce than Enjolras.”

“Oh, trust me, it is.” He clears his throat. “So, what’s your name?”

“René. But you can call me Grantaire.”

“I did read the story”, Enjolras says, feeling strangely self-conscious, “You were right. I loved it.”

Grantaire’s smile seems to flood his whole face, and for a moment he looks handsome even though his nose is crooked and his lips thin and his eyes bloodshot. Something sharp tightens and twists in Enjolras’s chest at the sight. ”Do tell me, then. What would you do if you were a citizen of Omelas?” Grantaire asks, “Would you walk away?”

“I wouldn’t be able to bear for the torture of a child – or anyone for that matter – to be the price I had to pay for my happiness. Of course I would walk away. Any half-decent person would.”

“Walking away doesn’t actually help anyone, though. It’s just a way for the ones who feel guilty about the consequences of their actions to feel better about themselves. The child still lives as miserably as before.” Grantaire pauses, and runs a hand through his hair, “If it isn’t possible to stop the scapegoat’s suffering, then wouldn’t it be better to make the sacrifice worthwhile?”

Enjolras chews on his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t leave, then, I’d stay and free the child instead.”

“What, and condemn an entire utopic society in the process?”

“And condemn a society constructed on injustice in the process? And destroy the beautiful screen of deceit that hides the ugly truth? I am fighting for the world to be just, or as just as it possibly can be. And there’s no justice in Omelas.” Enjolras pauses, for effect. “I’d condemn it to destruction in an heartbeat.”

Grantaire looks at Enjolras with a peculiar look on his face, disbelief and admiration and amusement. Then he snorts. “Wow”, he says, sarcasm dripping from each word like venom, “That was intense.”

 

“Les Amis De L’ABC? What’s that?” Grantaire asks a few weeks later, glancing down at the flyer Enjolras has pressed into his hands.

“We’re a nonprofit association. Our main goal is to give more learning opportunities to the kids in the Banlieues.” Enjolras answers.

“A worthy goal.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in Grantaire’s voice, and it makes Enjolras narrow his eyes.

“Don’t you think so?” he asks frostily.

“I do. I’m not sure how much you can accomplish.”

Enjolras presses his lips together. “There have been improvements over the course of the last decades.”

“Small ones.”

Enjolras fights down the urge to shout. “Yes, but things are changing. There obviously are issues, otherwise there wouldn’t be any need for groups like Les Amis to exist. That doesn’t mean we can’t make a difference.”

Grantaire’s smile is crooked and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, the idealism of youth. Good luck on your impossible task.” he says, but he grabs a flyer before he goes.

Enjolras doesn’t expect him to show up at one of their meeting after that. He is wrong.

Months pass, and Grantaire becomes a fixture in his life. He comes to all their meetings, and swings by “1832” at least once a week, usually more. Enjolras doesn’t notice how much he’s become accustomed to his presence until Grantaire disappears from the radar for a week in October.

His friends later tell him that he’d been insufferable for the whole time Grantaire was gone. Enjolras doesn’t believe them.

 

Jehan bursts into the shop one Friday afternoon in late November, startling the cats and brandishing a rolled-up magazine. “You”, he yells, pointing a trembling finger at Grantaire, “why didn’t you tell us your were R?”

Grantaire, for his part, turns around, depriving Enjolras of the view of his mouth as he eats, leaning back against counter. When he speaks, his voice is clear and unwavering, but Enjolras can see his knuckles turning white where he grips the table. “I didn’t think it was important.”

Jehan scowls. “I spent ages fawning all over his - your - work in front of you! And,” he cries, holding up his magazine “you are doing a gallery showing! You gave an interview! There’s a photo of you and everything. We’re your friends, don’t we get to find out a little bit sooner than the whole of France?”

Grantaire laughs. “Ok, first, I think that about two-hundred people read that magazine, and it only gets distributed in Paris. Second, I only gave the interview because my agent forced me”, he twists to face Enjolras, “We should introduce her to Combeferre, actually. They’re made of the same mix of quiet and terrifying.” There’s a half-smile on his face, and it’s so brilliant that it makes Enjolras’s heart misses a beat and his brain short-circuits, which is why he says: “Chalk.”

Jehan gapes at him and Grantaire raises his eyebrows, his grin turning mocking. “Excuse me?”

Enjolras clears his throat. “There was chalk in you hair, the first time you came.”

“That was three months ago, Apollo. How do you even remember that?”

Enjolras shrugs. “It struck me as odd”, he says carefully, because it’s less embarrassing than _I remember everything about you._

 

Just ask him out already”, says Courfeyrac as Enjolras glares at him. His two so-called best friends lured him into their trap with promises of warm food and movie night, and now they’re staging an intervention. Traitors.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake”, he mutters sourly, “I don’t have a crush on Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac opens his mouth to protest, but Combeferre beats him to it. “We don’t want to feel ganged up on”, he says mildly, “just consider it.”

Enjolras would like to believe that he’s won the argument. However, he knows Combeferre. And he knows Combeferre is almost always right. So he considers it.

The warmth blooming in Enjolras’s chest when Grantaire smiles, the soft contentment that fills him when they’re managing to hold a conversation without arguing, the inexplicable, giddy happiness that bubbles in Enjolras’s veins whenever he succeeds in making Grantaire laugh, are all things he’s dismissed as fondness for a friend. Never mind the fact that his heart doesn’t twist when Courfeyrac grins, or that he doesn’t admire Jehan’s bright eyes, or Combeferre careful hands.

 _Oh,_ Enjolras thinks.

 

Grantaire paints one of his pieces for them, in the end. It’s huge, the biggest piece he’s done to date, at least so he says, and it takes him the better part of a day to finish. He works on the sidewalk just outside “1832”, and they hang a huge photo of the finished piece behind the counter.

Jehan very nearly has a heart attack. Courfeyrac spends the whole day taking pictures of Grantaire as he works on his phone and making a general nuisance of himself, but he’s so cheerful that nobody begrudges him anything. Combeferre is, as always, the only responsible adult and arranges everything.

Enjolras, for his part, spends the day trying to come up with conversation starters and to muster the courage to go talk to Grantaire. He fails. So he just brings the artist warm beverages from the café Musain, across the road from “1832”, (coffee was banned after the third cup by Combeferre) and tries not to ogle his ass while he’s bent over painting. He fails at not ogling, as well. If Grantaire notices, he doesn’t mention it.

A few days later, snow falls, and it washes away the drawing.

 

The sky on the opening night of Grantaire’s gallery showing is blissfully clear, but it’s still cold enough that the snow shows no inclination to melt.

When Enjolras enters the gallery, he has one hand buried in the folds of his coat and the other holding on to the bouquet of flowers with enough strength that Courfeyrac has had to stop him from crushing it a couple of time on the way there. He’s also shivering uncontrollably. It might be nerves, but he solemnly decides to maintain that the cold is to blame until the day he dies.

The gallery is already full of people, and it takes Enjolras long enough to spot Grantaire that he is almost taken by surprise when the artist shows up in front of him. His charcoal vest is tight on his wide shoulders, and oh, Enjolras had never noticed that there was some green in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Hey, Apollo. Courf.”

Courfeyrac grins widely. “Hey, R. How’s the man of the hour?”

Grantaire grins. “I wouldn’t know. I’ll ask him when I see him.”

Enjolras figures he should probably join in on the conversation. He opens his mouth but no words come out. He tries again, and emits a high noise that sounds suspiciously like a whistle. He takes a deep breath, and ignores the concerned look on Courfeyrac’s face. He clears his throat and forces his lips to bend into a smile, one he’s betting looks more like a grimace, but there’s nothing he can do about that. Oh, well. Baby steps, he supposes. He thrusts the flowers forward, onto Grantaire’s chest. “These are for you”, he says, maintaining the grimace-smile (grimile? smace?), which is bound to be getting creepy by now.

“Uh, thanks”, Grantaire says, fumbling with the huge bouquet of sunflowers and lilies and peacock feathers, dark eyes shining. “I painted these the week after we met.” There’s something odd in his voice, and Enjolras can’t tell if he’s pleased.

“Do you like them?”, he asks anxiously.

“They’re lovely.” Grantaire’s smile is small and a little shy, and so blindingly brilliant that it’s all Enjolras can do not to pull him into a kiss right then and there.

“I’m glad you like them”, he says instead.

“Oh, I do.”

“Great.”

“Uh, uh.”

“Say, is that lobster in the canapés?” Courfeyrac asks, a touch too loudly to sound natural, but Enjolras is grateful for the interruption all the same.

“What? Oh, yes it is.”, Grantaire looks down and shuffles his feet, “I’ll go find a vase for the flowers”, he stutters, and is gone. 

 

“Nice sweater, Apollo”, Grantaire says upon entering “1832”, his lips curved in a grin as he takes off his rain-soaked coat and sweater and hangs them on the rack next to the door.

“Thanks”, Enjolras says resignedly, “Jehan knitted it for me.” He’d hoped to take off the Christmas sweater of doom before Grantaire saw it, but no such luck.

“Is that a deformed dragon?” Grantaire asks, pointing at the animal embroidered into the sweater.

“It’s a reindeer.”

“Very christmassy”, Grantaire says, trying to wipe water from his hair with his bare hands.

“We have a towel in the back room, if you want to dry your hair.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Enjolras leaves Combeferre to man the counter in his stead and leads Grantaire into the small, dark backroom, over-packed with cardboard boxes full of books.

He tosses Grantaire the only clean towel he finds, and sits on one of the boxes, leaning back onto his hands. “So”, he says in what he hopes is a casual tone, “I wanted to ask you something.”

Grantaire hums, and raises an eyebrow, a questioning half-smile on his face. Enjolras takes a deep breath. He has a whole speech ready to ask Grantaire on a date, and he has cue cards if it comes to that. He can do this.

That’s when the latest addition to the bookshop’s ever growing feline population comes charging out of the shadows, and, with a truly impressive jump, buries her claws in Grantaire’s shoulder. The man goes down with a shout, and Enjolras spends the next five minutes trying to rescue him from the hulking, hissing persian. The sweater he’s wearing is at least good in the respect that the wool is thick enough that it spares Enjolras from getting scratches all over his arms as he shoves the cat back into the carrier.

His task done, he glances at Grantaire, who has taken off his shirt and is examining the deep claw marks marring his skin. And, oh apparently Grantaire works out. Enjolras’s carefully prepared speech flies out of the window, along with his ability to string together coherent sentences. _Say something. Anything._ Enjolras orders himself. _Anything that isn’t ‘I want to lick your abs’._

He clears his throat. “Are you alright?” It comes out more squeaky than he’d intended, and he still hasn’t found the willpower to stop looking at Grantaire’s chest, but it’s still a start. He starts searching for the first-aid kit without waiting for Grantaire’s answer, mostly to give himself something to do beside having highly inappropriate thoughts and drooling. He finally digs it out from underneath a pile of old medical magazines, a leftover from Combeferre’s university days.

“What did you want to ask me?” Grantaire asks, as he presses antiseptic to his scratches. In the dim light, his eyes seem darker than usual, and they shine like mirrors.

“We’re having a party at my apartment on Friday. The Amis, I mean. I sent you an email, but you didn’t answer, and I thought maybe you hadn’t seen it. What I mean is, do you want to come?” As my date, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to add that part.

Grantaire looks disappointed for a moment, then he smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That sounds great. I’ll be there.”

“Great”, Enjolras echoes, 

 

“I’m turning into Courfeyrac”, Enjolras announces to the room at large on Friday afternoon, as he holds up a baby blue cashmere sweater to the light.

“I’ll take that as a compliment”, Courfeyrac dralws from his spot on the couch, his lips curved in a smirk. “Is that an actually fashionable piece of clothing you have there? Hell must be freezing over.”

“It was a birthday gift. From my parents”, Enjolras says stiffly, “I’ve never worn it, it’s a ridiculous waste of money that could have been employed helping people who actually need it.”

Combeferre hums, “And yet, you’re planning on wearing it tonight.”

Enjolras huffs. “I just thought that it’s an even bigger waste not to wear it, now that they’ve bought it.”

“Of course you did. It has nothing to do with you trying to impress Grantaire, does it?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Oh, forget it”, Enjolras says and stalks back into his room. He doesn’t slam the door, because he’s not actually a child, despite what his friends might say. It’s with some satisfaction, however, that he selects his most well-worn shirt, made of faded, threadbare red cotton. He regrets it, later, when Grantaire walks into his house with snowflakes melting in his hair and cheeks bright red from the cold. “I’ve brought something to warm us up”, he announces, holding up two bottles of bourgogne.

The news are met with cheers from Joly and Bossuet. Courfeyrac takes the bottles from Grantaire and retreats to the kitchen. “There’s food in the living room”, he says as he goes, “Just avoid the gingerbread men. Enjolras made those.”

“I don’t cook that badly!” Enjolras yells indignantly after him. 

Grantaire laughs and throws an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “Apollo”, he says solemnly, “you have many qualities, but I have seen you mess up tea.”

His hand is hot on Enjolras’s arm. “You said my tea was fine”, Enjolras protests, but his heart isn’t it.

“That’s just because I’m nice”, Grantaire whispers conspiratorially, his dark eyes twinkling, and presses a loud kiss to Enjolras’s cheek before releasing him.

Enjolras laughs, and it sounds a little forced even to his own ears, and tries to calm his wildly beating heart. The imprint of Grantaire’s lips on cheek burns like a brand. He’s about to go back to the living room, where he can get himself under control in peace, when Grantaire calls him back. “Can I talk to you for a minute? In private?” he asks, and it sounds hesitant.

“Of course”, Enjolras says, and leads him to his bedroom. Not the optimal room to be alone with Grantaire in (or the perfect room, if one were to listen to Courfeyrac), but their friends have taken over most of the house, which is tiny even by parisian standards, and it’s this or the bathroom. “What did you want to talk about?” he prompts, when Grantaire doesn’t make any move to begin.

“Is it true? What Courfeyrac told me?”

“Courfeyrac says many things”, Enjolras says, at loss, “most of them are true. What did he tell you?”

“That you, and I’m quoting directly have a ridiculous crush on me and you’re just too emotionally constipated and worried about rejection to tell me directly.”

“Oh”, Enjolras says, “that. It’s true.” He’s going to have to kill Courfeyrac now. And he’s just betting Combeferre won’t even help him bury the body.

“Really?” Grantaire says, and his smile is blinding, “That’s great. Because, you see, I have a ridiculous crush on you, too.”

“You do?”

“You can ask any of my friends, if you don’t believe me”, Grantaire says, drawing closer, “I’ve been insufferable, really, going on and on about you.”

Enjolras smiles. “Did you, now?” he asks softly.

“Oh, yes” Grantaire whispers, cupping Enjolras’s face. “I’ll tell you all about it”

Enjolras laughs breathlessly. “Later”, he says, and leans up to kiss him into silence.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a quote by Victor Hugo, “To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is spelled out is a spark.”.


End file.
